The Day the Laughter Died
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The house used to be filled with music.
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Every morning, the sound of spoons clinking against cups, the hum of the old piano in the hallway, and her father's deep, warm voice telling jokes he’d probably already said a dozen times.
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But today, there was only silence.
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Anatasia sat on the staircase, her hands tightly clutched around the worn wood of the bannister. Her fingers were trembling, though she didn’t know why—only that something felt wrong. The kind of wrong you don’t say out loud. The kind that lives in your stomach, heavy and cold.
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Downstairs, the front door creaked open. Soft voices murmured in tones too quiet to understand.
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Then she heard it—her mother’s cry. Sharp. Raw. Like a wound tearing open.
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She stood slowly, her legs shaky. She walked down the steps barefoot, her heart pounding louder than the clock on the wall.
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He wasn’t in his chair. His teacup was still on the table. Full. Untouched.
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And then, she saw the doctor shake his head. Just once.
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No one needed to say it.
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Anatasia froze.
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Time didn’t stop—but it twisted. The walls felt too tall, the air too thin. Her mother fell to her knees. And somewhere deep inside, Anatasia knew that the last piece of her world had just shattered.
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Her father was gone.
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The man who told her she was enough. The man who kissed her forehead every night. The man who made her feel like she mattered.
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Gone.
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And all that remained was silence… and a teac
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up that would never be emptied.
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